The Color of Passion
by ChosenOfAshurha
Summary: John has something Sherlock needs to see. (Editing should be fixed! More to come later!)


Red. Such a stimulating color, loaded with meaning in every culture. Lust, love passion, speed, virility, life…

What did it mean now? Was there a hidden message, some meaning he had missed? Sherlock turned the information over in his mind, mulling over the data for the third time, fourth time, rounding in for his fifth when he heard the creak of stairs.

John.

—

"Sherlock, they were completely out of the biscuits you like, but I did get-" John stopped in the doorway, his eyes wide. Sherlock stood before him, dressed in a fine silk shirt, straining at the buttons. It was red, crimson, seeming to drink in the darkness of the flat. It was tucked into tight black slacks, clinging to his impossibly long legs in an infuriating fashion. He looked regal, deadly, and incredibly sexy. John looked away.

"Uh- I got another brand, I should… I should go put the food away, I…" He started to turn, but Sherlock grasped him by the arm. The groceries swayed.

"Red, John."

"Pardon?"

"What does the color red say to you?"

John could not look at him. He refused. If he let himself gaze at Sherlock too long, he thought he might faint.

"It says… excitement. Danger. Blood. Lust. Lots of- lots of things. Why?"

Sherlock drew close. John could smell him, expensive aftershave and conditioner, and he trembled involuntarily. He exuded confidence and power, and it was utterly enthralling. John was nervous; Sherlock wasn't usually so… well, he was always unaware of personal space, but this? It was… intimate. Intimidating.

"Because, John. I need to know why you wear them."

He was practically growling, his deep baritone rumbling through John's body like thunder. His heart was racing.

"Wear… wear what, Sherlock? I don't understand."

The taller man smirked and began to press himself against John. The doctor retreated, but Sherlock followed him until his back slammed against the wall.

"You bent over to retrieve the remote today. I saw them, the flash of red beneath your denim. What do they mean, John?"

His question was punctuated with a thrust of his hips, finally bringing their bodies together. The groceries lay discarded on the floor, and John found his blood burning with the sudden contact. He could feel Sherlock's heart pounding beneath the crimson slik.

"They make me feel… younger. I wear them when I'm having a… well, a particularly bad day. I feel, I don't know. Confident. Sexy."

He wasn't aware of the fact he was whispering.

—

Sherlock stared down at John, his breath ragged. His crystalline irises were nearly invisible, his pupils blown with lust. John needed to feel sexy? Couldn't he see the effect he HAD on him? The room was silent after his admission, the only sounds filtering in from busy London streets, and the flat seemed to melt away as they stared into each others' eyes.

"You really do live for danger, don't you?"

John tilted his head to the side, taken aback.

"I don't… I don't follow, Sherlock."

Closer this time, his head lowered so deeply that his breath washed across John's upturned face. He could smell jam and biscuits, cinnamon gum, and the hint of hops. It sent heat spreading through his veins, like liquid fire.

"I'm the most dangerous man in London, after all."

Voice deep, almost like a purr. Oh, yes, John liked that. His blonde lashes fluttered, and a low moan rumbled in his throat. Perfect. A roll of his hips, and he was pressed so tightly against John's denim that he could feel his arousal. Surprisingly, he felt it mirrored in his groin. Only John could kindle such a physical response.

"John."

Whispered, guttural, and full of need. John was trembling. His eyes were closed. Breathing was shallow and quick. Flushed features.

"I want to see you in them. Will you let me see?"

His lips brushed John's ear and his legs gave way as he moaned with need. Sherlock caught him deftly and raised him to his feet, grinning wickedly. John seemed to find his voice at the touch.

"Jesus, god, yes Sherlock."

Sherlock laced his slender fingers through John's and led him to the bedroom. As the door closed behind them, he sat on the edge of the mattress and positioned John before him.

"Strip, John."

As John obliged, Sherlock lowered one delicate hand to his trousers and slipped the zipper down.

—

Jon's eyes widened with surprise, his fingers halting on the leather strap of his belt. Sherlock was waiting, his slacks open, his eyes locked on John. His long fingers traced circles across his thighs. John shook his head and tried to focus as he undressed. There was a small thud as his trousers fell, bringing his wallet and keys with them, but Sherlock didn't seem to notice.

John's jumper was long, covering the very things Sherlock wanted to see. There was a groan of frustration from the bed.

"The top as well, John."

He knew what Sherlock'd see; his silly red pants stretched over his rather obvious erection, and then there'd be no more hiding. Sherlock would know.

He sighed, and moved his hands to the hem of his jumper. There would be a small mental countdown, and then he'd be bare before the genius. John cursed his steadiness, the adrenaline that coursed through him, the heat building in his groin. Sherlock would know, Sherlock already knew- his body language made that much clear. God, the way he had growled in John's ear…

Three.

Two.

One.

—

Sherlock stared. Sherlock studied. Sherlock memorized. Then, Sherlock began to move his hand.


End file.
